


Series 4

by MyTARDISsenseIsTingling



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, F/M, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, Minor Violence, Psychological Torture, Romance, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlolly - Freeform, Slow Burn, possible nsfw (still deciding)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:30:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2861468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyTARDISsenseIsTingling/pseuds/MyTARDISsenseIsTingling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm just going to write how I think series 4 should go based on the end of series 3. And because it's me, Sherlolly romance will ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Did You Miss Me?

Did you miss me?

The world had dissolved around the television screen so that it felt like Molly was falling through the floor with just that haunting face to leer at her for the rest of eternity.

Did you miss me?

She didn’t even notice as the scalpel she’d been holding fell to the ground, clattering emptily against the sterilized limestone.

Did you miss me?

Her heart was in her throat. Blood roared in her ears. Those eyes, those horrible eyes bored into hers through the screen as if to say ‘I know what you did, Molly Hooper. And I’m coming for you.’

Did you miss me?  
Did you miss me?  
Did you miss me?

No.  
No she couldn’t say she had missed him.

~

Somewhere on an isolated government runway in the outskirts of London, a plane was turning around to land, stopping in front of three figures who, just minutes before, had thought they were saying a long goodbye to the man aboard the plane. But plans had changed.

John and Mary’s heads were still bent together in worry as Mycroft stepped out of the limousine to join them, waiting for his little brother to de-plane. 

“What does it mean?” John asked, fixing Mycroft with a grim, steady look.

“We cannot be sure yet at this time,” Mycroft murmured, his eyes not moving from the plane as the wheels touched the ground again and it began to slow down. “It’s just an image on a screen. Investigations are already underway. We have analysts hard at work trying to match whether or not that’s actually his voice in the recording, trying to find some way to date the footage to see if it might have been recorded before the altercation on the roof of St. Barts three years ago, but it might all be too distorted to tell. At any rate, there is definitely still the possibility that it might be a copycat act. Someone wanting to pick up where our old friend left off.”  
By now, the roar of the plane’s engine had grown so loud as it got closer that John had to shout to be heard over it.

“But I don’t understand, it can’t actually be him, can it? Your people have his body, don’t they? You confirmed his death, didn’t you?”

Mycroft said nothing, still refusing to meet John’s eyes.

“Didn’t you?”

But the front door of the plane was swinging open and before John could ask again, Sherlock Holmes was stepping back out, his favorite coat blowing in the wind and his eyes sparkling as though Christmas had come early.

“Well, well, you just couldn’t even function without me for a second, could you brother?” his infuriating smirk was firmly in place already. Mycroft’s jaw tensed.

“Yes, Sherlock but don’t get so excited. This is a dire matter for the nation. The mere implications of the video…”

“The video I have yet to actually see?” Sherlock asked, putting out his hand expectantly. Mycroft sighed and handed him the phone, the recording still playing on loop.

“They’re still trying to figure out where it is broadcasting from and how to stop it,” he explained.

Sherlock watched the recording for a few seconds, his brow furrowing. 

“It’s him.”

“How can you-?”

“It’s definitely him. I know him. I know how he works. It’s him. The game, my friends-”

He stepped back to perform a sort of excited twirl, his hands landing in thinking position under his chin.

“-is definitely back on.”

His eyes continued to glitter in the light of a new challenge, and he couldn’t seem to stop the corners of his mouth from turning up. His old rival had come back to play.

“Sherlock, we can’t know that for sure.”

“Logically, though, who else could it be? Who else could possibly have anything to gain from pulling off a stunt like this?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Any number of imitators, I’m sure.”

“No! No, it still doesn’t add up,” Sherlock shook his dark curls vigorously. “This is something only the real Moriarty would be capable of thinking up, let alone executing. It’s the only explanation that fits all of the current evidence.”

“Excuse me,” John interjected. “I’m still wondering how either of you are still even considering it an option that it could actually be Moriarty when we know for a fact that Moriarty is DEAD!”

The Holmes brothers stared at him blankly, temporarily dumbstruck. It was as though both of them had forgotten John and Mary were there at all. Mary, for her part, looked back and forth between all parties involved for the time being, trying to follow. She hadn’t been in London for Moriarty’s attacks before, and had only heard stories about it in the newspapers. John had told her minimal details on the subject, as though he’d been hoping to forget all about it. As though he had considered the matter closed and was happy to let it stay that way.

Unfortunately, the broadcast had changed all of that.

“Moriarty was never dead,” Sherlock said starkly.

“Not dead that we could officially prove at any rate…” Mycroft added, kneading the sides of his forehead. He suddenly looked very tired. “We had hoped…”

“I started to wonder not too long after I’d successfully gone into hiding myself if Moriarty had managed to fake his death as well. My suspicions were confirmed when I recieved a particular phone call from my brother, here. It didn’t take long for them to figure out that the body they’d retrieved from the roof of St. Bart’s was not a real corpse, but a very convincing fake.”

“We still had pictures of the fake body on the rooftop, though. It was enough to fool the public. We decided to keep the truth a secret so as not to cause panic in anyone, and we hoped that he might be in hiding for good this time. Or that perhaps he was dead, but someone else had taken his body, like a member of his crime ring perhaps. At any rate, everyone thought it best to not alarm people further unless we had solid evidence to think otherwise.”

John looked faint. He took a step backwards, and Mary placed a placating hand on his shoulder, though the look she was giving Mycroft as he told his story was one of horror.

“You’ve been fooling the entire country? Lying to everyone? A madman was possibly still at large, and you’ve been telling everyone everything is fine?” John’s voice shook.

“Well not exactly, John, we have been a little distracted recently if you’ll recall…”

Mycroft was referencing the troubling business with Charles Augustus Magnussen that had brought them all to this runway in the first place, but John was shaking his head.

“I’ll never understand the logic of the Holmes family, I suppose.”

“So what do we do now?” Mary asked, finally, her brow furrowed. She had not removed her hand from John’s shoulder.

“We wait for any clues that investigation teams might be able to accumulate from this transmission, and go from there, I suppose.” Mycroft had already pulled his mobile out of his pocket again and was scrolling through it vigorously for updates. Sherlock, for his part, began pacing.

“I’ve been in the headlines quite a bit since my return, Moriarty will of course know that I didn’t actually die that day either,” he was muttering as he paced, almost more to himself than directly to any of the others.

“He’ll want revenge. He’ll want to face off again. He won’t like that I got out of his scheme before. He’s probably been planning a comeback for some time. That’s why he’s been quiet for so long as well. The question is now that he’s announced himself, what will his first move be? It’s likely he’ll wait awhile, hoping to catch me off guard, and then… he’ll want… he’ll want…”

Sherlock’s voice trailed off as his eyes widened and he looked suddenly alarmed. Mary stepped forward. 

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

But Sherlock was whirling on his brother. 

“Get me back to London immediately.”

~

Molly Hooper tried to remain calm as she began the walk home from work later that night, but she couldn’t shake the grainy footage of Jim’s face on loop from her mind. Eventually it had stopped and the telly had gone back to normal, but Molly couldn’t unsee it. She couldn’t get his chilling voice out of her head. Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?

The shadows on every street seemed to loom over her menacingly. Familiar sights suddenly seemed sinister. A part of her kept expecting his pale leering face to jump out at her as she turned every corner, possibly the last thing she’d ever see. 

“Excuse me, miss?”

Molly nearly jumped out of her skin, whirling around much too quickly to find an old man in a shabby coat hobbling after her.

“Miss? You’ve dropped your glove!”

“What? Oh! I- thank you.”

Molly’s heart was racing. She accepted the glove from the man’s outstretched hand and shoved it back in her pocket, silently willing her breathing to return to normal.

“You all right miss?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” 

She hurried off down the street again, walking even faster this time. She could feel the old man’s eyes on her retreating back, and she knew she might have seemed rude, but she wanted nothing more than to reach the safety of her flat by this point. Finally, she saw the familiar old steps leading up to the building just ahead. 

Molly took the stairs to her floor two at a time. She was so close. At her door, she fumbled momentarily with her key before finally fitting it in and hearing the lock click open to welcome her back to safety. Relieved, she stepped inside, closing the door firmly behind her and leaning back against it, breathing deeply. Once her breathing had returned to normal, she stood back up again and flipped on the light to the entry way and walked into her kitchen, dropping her bag on the counter. There she turned on the light as well, and suddenly her heart leapt into her throat again.

From her kitchen, Molly could see into her sitting room, and in her sitting room she could see someone sitting facing away from her in one of the armchairs.

He spoke.

“Hello, Molly Hooper.”


	2. Sleepover

Molly’s heart rate had picked fully back up again. She jumped about a mile and as a sort of strange reflex made a grab for one of her knives in its holder on the counter. It all happened in such a rush that it took a longer moment than it should have for Molly to realize something:

That wasn’t Moriarty’s voice.

Sherlock stood up from the armchair wearing his long signature coat and a vaguely amused expression.

“We really need to get you a better security system, your current locking mechanism is far too easy to crack.”

Of course it was Sherlock. Molly should have known. Those were his dark curls peeking above the edge of the chair before, and his voice that had echoed through the flat. It was obvious now, and she couldn’t help but feeling a little silly. After all she of all people… well she should have known. Her mind had just been so clouded with worry over Moriarty. As this fear ebbed and the reality of the situation finally sank in, she scowled at Sherlock.

“What the hell? Sherlock you can’t just go breaking into peoples’ flats!”

“And yet I did, so might I reiterate, you need better security around this place.”

“It was working just fine until tonight, thank you. No one asked you to go testing it.”

“I gather, then, that you have not been paying attention to the television today?”

“Of course I have!”

“Then you know why I’m concerned.”

“You’re concerned?”

Molly felt an all-too familiar twinge in the pit of her stomach. So familiar, in fact, that she’d gotten used to willing it away as soon as it happened. She knew she shouldn’t read into these sorts of situations with him. There were probably many calculated, completely non-personal reasons why Sherlock would be concerned for her safety. 

“Of course I’m concerned. I can’t have Moriarty getting to my best pathologist. It simply wouldn’t do.”

And there it was. Of course. It was all part of the game with him; trying to best his old rival. He probably just didn’t want Moriarty to get to her first. Like a race.

“I realized you might be one of the top people on his list, considering he’ll likely want revenge on me, and he’s probably worked out by now that you were one of the key people in helping me escape him,” Sherlock continued.

“That’s what I thought too!” Molly exclaimed, then quickly cleared her throat. “I mean, not to assume too much importance of course.”

“No, no, you were very important. You still are. I want to increase security around you, make sure you’re safe. Mycroft is one of the other top people on the hit list but he’s got constant access to security. You, on the other hand, do not.”

“Well thank you? I suppose? Although I can watch out for myself sometimes, you know.”

“Correct, but not if you’re taken by surprise, or ganged up on… no he’ll have thought of everything, which means we have to as well. You’ll need escorts most places from now on. I can help, and Mary would be good as well, as Moriarty can’t know much about her yet. And we’ll switch out the locks here of course, I think I know someone who could help… perhaps Mycroft even has some suggestions… do you have time for martial arts lessons? I know someone who could help with that as well…”

He’d begun pacing throughout this monologue, his words tumbling out faster and faster the more he spoke. Molly felt herself blinking rapidly, trying to keep up.

“Sherlock, I really don’t know if all of this is necessary!”

Molly didn’t know why she was putting up the front, honestly. She’d been downright terrified since she’d seen Moriarty’s face on the telly and she couldn’t deny that the thought of having a little extra protection around was comforting. And yet she continued to protest.

“Honestly, Sherlock, we’re probably both overreacting. I’m pretty sure Jim couldn’t care less about me anymore.”

“No.” He turned away from her, his voice growing oddly quiet. “No, I know him. He’s coming after you. Everything is a game to Moriarty, and he doesn’t like losing. And yet last time I beat him. We beat him. Together.”

Molly felt herself give an involuntary shiver and was relieved Sherlock still had his back to her so he couldn’t see.

“Not John, not Mycroft, not Lestrade, just you and I, Molly.”

“Mycroft helped…”

“Mycroft hid me after the fact. But he wasn’t instrumental in the plan to get me off that rooftop alive, in the end. Moriarty is much more upset about the latter.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s what I would be upset about.”

Molly walked slowly around Sherlock so she could see his face again. His pale eyes stared coldly and blankly into space, light years away, until Molly touched his arm lightly, giving him a small smile. 

“You and Moriarty aren’t the same person, you know that, right?”

At her touch, he blinked and seemed to return to earth, meeting her gaze. However, his expression did not warm.

“You have too much faith in me, Molly Hooper.”

Molly frowned, about to protest but Sherlock was stepping forward away from her again, apparently back to his rapid-fire plans.

“Right then. I’ll stay the night tonight until we can work out a more solid plan with the others. The same set-up as usual.”

It was a statement, not a request. Molly sighed inwardly but managed to not let it escape for Sherlock to hear.

“Fine.”

~

Sherlock had a few different favorite hideouts he liked to use when he needed a day or two to lay low from his enemies, and Molly’s apartment happened to be one of them. He usually slept in Molly’s room while Molly slept on her small couch, as Sherlock insisted he needed the space for mind-palace-related excursions or some rubbish like that. But this particular evening he did not seem to want to let Molly out of his sight.

Molly thought she’d finally left him occupied with a quiz show on the telly long enough to get ready for bed. She managed to change into a t-shirt and soft pajama shorts without his interference, but as she finished washing her face she gave a violent start as she lowered the towel from drying it and saw his reflection standing behind her in the mirror.

“JESUS! Sherlock don’t do that!”

Molly’s heart felt like it was about to burst right out of her from racing so fast.

“You disappeared. I came to see where you’d gone.”

“I just went down the hall, not across town!”

“It never hurts to check.”

Molly paused halfway through the act of hanging her towel back up. For a moment, she could swear she saw a particular intensity in Sherlock’s expression that caused her stomach to twist, but it was gone so quickly that she was soon able to convince herself she’d just imagined it. 

You’re just seeing things you want to see, she chided herself. Get your brain out of your arse, Hooper. 

“Right,” Molly cleared her throat, taking a step around Sherlock to stand facing him in the hall. “Well, I think it’s time we both head to bed, don’t you?”

Sherlock eyed her stonily, his brow furrowing. “Yes I suppose it is.”

“Okay… well… You know where the room is!” Molly gestured at the door to her right. Sherlock didn’t move. Molly began to inch away slowly, suddenly very eager to distance herself from that gaze. “Goodnight!”

Sherlock continued staring after her as she turned her back and disappeared around the corner.

~

It always took some adjusting to get comfortable on the couch, and even then it was never as good as sleeping in her own bed, but Molly managed. She curled up under one of the afghans her gran had knitted for her over the years, and it was warm and comfy enough. She’d just begun to drift off to sleep when she was jolted awake again by Moriarty’s horrible leer swimming to the forefront of her consciousness again. She shot up with a gasp, looking wildly around the darkened room as she tried to regain control of her breathing. It took what seemed like ages for the vision of his face to finally fade, and suddenly Molly realized that Sherlock had walked into the room and was staring at her.

“What the hell are you doing?!” she exclaimed, angry at the fright he’d just given her.

“Were you having a bad dream?”

“I don’t think I’d managed to fully get to sleep yet.”

“I heard you shifting around. It seemed like an abnormal amount for most humans, though admittedly I don’t have many examples to go on. Anyway, I just thought I’d come out and check.”

“Sherlock this isn’t cute! You’re acting like some creepy boyfriend in a teen vampire romance novel.”

Molly realized how the words might have sounded moments after saying them. She felt her eyes widen and her cheeks flush.

“I mean… not that you’re… you’re not… not my...”

But it didn’t matter. The words seemed to have gone right over Sherlock’s curly head.

“Come sleep in the bedroom.”

Molly’s heart skipped a beat. More blood rushed to her cheeks and she felt hot around the collar now as well.

“What?”

“Come sleep in the bedroom. Until we can get better protection for you here, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone.”

“But… but I’m just a room away! It’s not that big of a flat…”

“Just… please, Molly.”

Molly blinked. Had he really just said please?

“It matters that much to you? Besting Moriarty? He’s really getting to you, isn’t he.”

“I suppose so.”

Their eyes locked for another moment as Molly tried desperately to read something, anything from Sherlock’s expression as to why he was being so obsessive about this. But she couldn’t. All she knew for sure was that whatever the reason, him wanting her to sleep with him wasn’t a request to, well, sleep with him. Sherlock didn’t work that way. She’d had to accept that a long time ago, and she’d made a promise to herself to let it go. So she knew that affection of any kind was not the reason for all of this.

But what was? It just seemed a bit strange that he was being quite so protective of her; a bit excessive, even for him. But then again, perhaps she was just underestimating him. They’d never been in a situation quite like this before, with Moriarty and Sherlock both having come back from their first face-off alive and even more ready to best each other than ever. And Molly knew from John and from some personal observation as well that Sherlock had gotten very caught up in the competition with his rival those four years ago. So perhaps it was all just escalating naturally. Molly couldn’t deny it to herself though, that theory was slightly worrying as far as what it could mean for the man standing in front of her.

“Fine.”

Molly stood up to break the long silence and walked down the short hallway towards her bedroom without looking back at him. 

She walked in and laid down on her bed, turning over on her side to face away from the middle of the bed. Sherlock said nothing, but she felt the weight shift on the bed as he laid down next to her. She scooted a bit further to the edge of the bed, making sure their bodies did not touch in the slightest. She was suddenly very aware of how thin the fabric on her t shirt was, and that she wasn’t wearing a bra, and how close the two of them could be if she merely turned around and moved in a few inches. Then, she quickly pushed these thoughts aside, squeezing her eyes shut, willing herself to fall asleep quickly. But there were only a few moments of silence.

“You seem angry.”

“Sherlock! I’m trying to sleep.”

“I’m looking out for your well-being. Why are you so angry at me?”

“Because!” Molly sat up in the bed, whirling herself around to face him again. He was laying next to her still wearing his plum button-down shirt and black trousers, his hands behind his head, his aquamarine eyes staring up at the ceiling. He hadn’t even gotten under the covers. The sight only annoyed Molly more.

“Because you only care about this whole thing because it’s a competition against Moriarty, and I’m a pawn in the middle of it all. That’s all I am to him, that’s all I am to you, that’s all I am to anyone. And it’s selfish of you Sherlock. I expect that from him, but not from you. I thought you were better than that. And that’s why I’m angry. Now goodnight.”

Molly threw herself aggressively back down onto the bed to face away from him, too angry to care whether the gesture seemed overly melodramatic or not. She’d never before felt quite such a strong inner conflict between wishing Sherlock would just disappear and wishing that he would never leave, and that was saying a lot. She shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut, willing all of the warring thoughts to cease. All she wanted now was to go to sleep. She’d been through quite enough emotions for one day, thank you.

Sherlock remained silent after Molly’s outburst, but she was too upset to let it bother her. She didn’t care what he thought of her after that. But he didn’t leave, he stayed by her side, fully clothed, resting atop the covers next to her

Somewhere between the worlds of wakefulness and unconsciousness, she thought she heard a voice whisper in her ear, “You’re wrong.”  
But then again, that could have just been the beginnings of a dream.


	3. Two Talks

“Where have you been?”

John stood up from the couch where he’d been sitting with Mary when Sherlock walked through the front door of 221B Baker Street later that morning.

“Honestly, it seems you two are here more than I am sometimes. Fancy moving back in? I’ll take your place.” Sherlock didn’t look back at them as he spoke, pretending to be distracted hanging up his coat.

“Don’t dodge the question, Sherlock, we’ve been worried. Where were you?”

Sherlock finally spun around to face them, agitation in his voice. “I was at Molly’s, just like I texted you.”

John blinked, outwardly taken aback. “Molly’s? All night?”

“Yes.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. He exchanged an over-the-shoulder glance with Mary.

“What?” Sherlock asked, his brow knit in confusion. “You’re acting like that means something.”

John couldn’t help but let a small grin slip.

“For most people, it means something.”

“Well I’m not most people.”

“Trust us, we know.”

Mary rose from the couch now to join them. “So why were you there, Sherlock? Is Molly okay?”

“She is. For now. However I’m theorizing that she might be Moriarty’s target now that he’s returned.”

“But we still don’t know for sure that he’s returned.”

“It’s the only logical conclusion. I know it, you know it, even though you might not want to admit it.”

John and Mary exchanged yet another look full of meaning, but did not argue. Sherlock took their silence to mean that he’d won this round.

“Now, Mary, I’d really prefer for Molly to have someone around her at all times, just in case. It’s best she’s not alone for long periods of time. She’ll probably be all right at work for awhile, but I need you to take her for a lunch outing and then perhaps stay with her for the rest of the day. I’ll be speaking with a contact who can set her up with better security in her flat.”

Mary stared at him incredulously, her mouth hanging open slightly.

“Sherlock… are you really sure all of that is necessary?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? You’ve heard what Moriarty is capable of.”

“But Sherlock… you’re making it sound as though she’s a helpless five-year-old or something. She doesn’t need a babysitter!”

“She has no self-defense training, no weapons to carry. Moriarty has thousands of connections that have every ability to dispose of her at any time without warning…”

Sherlock seemed rigidly set on the matter. Mary stared at him for a long time, until something seemed to dawn in her eyes. A small smirk played across her lips.

“Fine.”

Mary gave John a peck on the cheek and whisked past them. “See you later, love. I still think you’re being ridiculous though, Sherlock!”

And then she was out the door.

“Well that was more difficult than it should have been,” Sherlock muttered. Then he turned to go put on a kettle to boil water for tea. John remained where he was, hands behind his back, clicking his heels nervously.

“What?” Sherlock asked, his back still on his friend.

“What?”

“Why are you acting like that?”

“Acting like what?”

Sherlock turned back around, a mug in his hand. “Like you want to say something.”

“Because I want to say something.”

“So say it.”

John continued to hesitate.

“Oh for god’s sake, John, just say it. This is infuriating.”

 

John took a deep breath. “It’s just… Not to sound too… presumptive, or anything, but do you think I’m in any danger? To be honest I’m quite tired of being tied up and threatened or drugged and stuffed in bonfires.” He gave a small chuckle, trying to make light of what quite honestly had been horrifying situations. “But if Moriarty’s back… well…”

Sherlock fixed him with a clear stare.

“No, John, I think you’re okay this time. Well for now, anyway. I’m sure eventually he means to kill us all, after he plays with each of us for a bit. But his focus will be on Molly first. She was his miscalculation. The one he counted out. The one he underestimated. Moriarty doesn’t like being bested, and he’ll want revenge.”

“Ah… well. That only makes me feel a little bit better.”

Sherlock went back to busying himself with tea. John sat down in his old chair and took out the Times to flip through. After a few minutes, the tea kettle began to whistle. 

“Don’t you have work today?”

“It’s Saturday, Sherlock.”

“Right. Then why did Molly have to go to work?”

“Hospitals don’t close on Saturdays.”

“Right.”

Sherlock poured the hot water into the mug, adding in the little bag of tea and stirring slightly, staring at where his friend sat in the chair, just like old times.

“John, why are you still here?”

“Because I’ve missed the old place.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Fine!” John growled, putting down the paper. “I’m worried about you, Sherlock.”

“Well don’t be.”

“Too late.”

“Well then get in line because it appears that all anyone can do is worry about me right now. You’re all mystifying, really.”

“Who? Molly?”

“I didn’t say anything about her.”

“Is Molly worried about you too?”

“She didn’t say so. But she was doing that thing with her lips that she does when she’s worried.”

“What thing with her lips?”

“You know, she kind of purses them a little to the side…”

“I can’t say I’ve spent very much time paying attention to Molly Hooper’s lip habits, honestly.”

Sherlock looked irritated, now leaning back against the counter and staring at John intently, his fingers intertwining under his chin, his tea neglected off to the side. “Well she does it.”

John looked annoyingly amused. “Well can you blame us for worrying, Sherlock? You’re an obsessive person enough as it is, and Moriarty has a special knack for bringing it out of you…”

“I haven’t forgotten last time.”

John raised his eyebrows again, as though he’d expected a different answer. “Well… good. Because neither have I.”

“I won’t allow Moriarty to get in my head again the way he did last time. I know his tricks. I’m better prepared this time.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. Actually. I am.”

“Fine… well… I guess there isn’t really any reason for me to stay. Unless you need anything else?”

“No. I just need to call the locksmith about Molly’s apartment.”

“Alright. Well just remember, Sherlock, we’re all here if you need anything.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything by way of thanks to John’s statement as John walked out the door, but John hadn’t really expected him to. 

~

Molly was always quite pleased to see Mary Watson, though when Mary came walking into St. Bart’s post-mortem ward at a little before noon later that Saturday, she was rather confused.

“Mary hello! What are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you of course…” But a moment later the solution dawned on Molly. “Hold on, did Sherlock send you?”

Mary gave her a sheepish smile and nodded.

“Oh no! Mary I’m so sorry, really if you’ve got other things you need to be doing today please don’t feel obligated to-”

“Eh,” Mary waved her off and gave a shrug. “Might as well just humor him, right? Only plans I had for today were to run by the bookstore. I thought maybe you could come along? After we grab some lunch?”

Molly looked doubtfully down at the sample she’d been examining under the microscope.

“Oh come on,” Mary prompted. “John says you even work on Christmas sometimes. I think they can let you go for an afternoon.”

“Oh… go on then,” Molly said, breaking into a smile. “Just let me clean this up and we can go.”

~

Half and hour later the two women were sitting across from each other at a table in a small cozy cafe a few blocks from St. Bart’s. 

“Now,” Mary said, setting down her cup as though she was about to launch into a very lengthy business discussion. “What’s all this about Sherlock staying the night at your place?”

Molly felt the involuntary blush creeping up her face.

“It’s really not what it sounds like! He was just being strange last night. After the little… broadcast on telly yesterday, he came over to check on me once I got home from work.”

“Well how thoughtful!”

“Yeah. I suppose…”

“What?”

Molly set her mug down on the table top, drumming her fingers around the sides nervously.  
“I just… I don’t think it was thoughtfulness, exactly, that made him do it. He gets so strange about Moriarty, you know. I just don’t know what to think.”

“Actually John’s never talked much about what happened before with Moriarty.”

“He hasn’t?”

“No, not really. Bits and pieces here and there. And I mean I wasn’t dead, I saw what all the papers were saying about the whole thing. John just seems very hesitant to go into his own account of it in much detail.”

“Makes sense,” Molly said quietly, eyes shifting back down to her tea. Mary and John had both forgiven her long ago for helping to keep the secret of Sherlock’s true whereabouts from John after he’d gone into hiding, but she still felt guilty whenever it was brought up. It had been horrible to see John in such a state. Mary truly couldn’t have come along at a better time.

“What was it like?” Mary prompted gently, pulling Molly away from her guilty thoughts. “Sherlock vs Moriarty? The first time?”

Molly paused, thinking back. The first image that jumped to her mind was Sherlock, the night he’d come to ask for her help, but she pushed it away quickly. “It was… intense,” she said, finally. “I’ve never seen him get like that. He really thought he was going to die for awhile. And watching him, it was like he was sad about that but he also wasn’t going to go down unless he could take Moriarty with him. Personally, I think even if he hadn’t found a way to fake his own death, he still would have gone through with everything. He’s so strange sometimes, it’s like he has a death wish.”

Molly suddenly became aware that she’d been staring forcefully at the mug in her hands, gripping it tightly. She loosened her hold, giving an involuntary shudder and looking back up at Mary.

“I’m sorry dear, I didn’t mean to bring up such awful memories,” Mary said quietly, She looked genuinely worried.

“It’s fine,” Molly assured her, trying to force a smile back to her lips. “We’ve come such a long way since then. I truly think John being in his life has brought about a huge change in him. And you as well.”

“And you,” Mary cut in, breaking into a smile. “Don’t count yourself out of that equation.”

“Please. Every time I think he’s finally started to respect me, he starts treating me like a helpless child again.”

“You know, it might just be because he cares about you.”

Molly snorted. “Right.”

“No, I mean it! He cares about you. He doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you but he’s scared something will.”

“No, he’s scared Moriarty is going to beat him this time, that’s what he’s scared of.”

“I don’t believe that for a second, love.” 

Molly refused to meet Mary’s eyes now. Mary was saying everything Molly just couldn’t emotionally afford to think about.

“Still doesn’t give him the right to belittle me, no matter what,” she said stubbornly. 

“No, you’re right. But you worry about him too.”

Molly took a sip of her tea, nodding. “Old habit.”

“Can’t say I blame you. And especially with all that business with Magnussen…”

“Yeah whatever happened with that? I feel like I was hearing all about him and then I wasn’t and then Jim was appearing on the telly.”

Mary froze, her own cup halfway to her lips. Her eyes widened.

“What?” Molly asked, giving a nervous laugh. “What happened?”

“No one told you?” Mary asked in a whisper.

“No I guess not.” Molly felt her heart start to race, suddenly apprehensive of whatever Mary might say next.

“I thought… I thought you knew. Magnussen is dead.”

“Oh,” Molly said, now very confused. “But isn’t that- wouldn’t that be- i don’t know- good? For us anyway? Not that I’d wish death on anyone or anything.”

“Well yes, it was the only way to ensure John’s and my safety. But that’s just it, that’s why he did it.”

“Who who did what?”

“Sherlock shot him. He killed him. He was about to be banished from the country but Mycroft called him back when Moriarty’s broadcast hit. He got off the plane, talked to John and me, and then got a weird look in his eye and I guess he went to find you.”

Molly suddenly felt dizzy. “Sherlock killed someone?”

“Well, yes, but dear he had to, there was no other way to-”

But Molly was already standing up, throwing her coat and scarf back on and, heading for the door.

“I have to go,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll pay you back later!”

The door of the cafe swung shut, leaving Mary alone at the table, staring after Molly, looking as though she wanted to shout or follow after her. But she didn’t.


	4. Up the Spout Again

The master was back, the king, the spider at the center of his web, the owner of the city. He had to restrain himself from getting a small skip in his step as he walked the streets of London now. Everyone was just as dull as ever. Not one of the morons even noticed the same face they’d seen on the news, not once! Just a hat, a wig, some contacts, and a prosthetic nose. That was all it took. It was too easy. It was all painfully too easy. But then again part of him had grown to miss easy.

Hence the message.

They’d need to know he was back if anything was going to ever get interesting again, of course. Sherlock was the only one who ever made things interesting. And oh how this cat missed that mouse’s little games! He thought he’d won there for a moment, he really thought he had. But it looked as though they’d both found a way out, delaying their final showdown once more for just a few more years. What were a few more years when you thought about it though? He knew he’d win eventually. He knew all of Sherlock’s weaknesses now, all of his flaws. Every last one. Nothing could get past him this time.

He stopped in front of an apartment building and buzzed the correct number. “Hello, Molly Hooper’s residence? I’m Hugh Stamford, here to install some extra security.”

“Thank you, Hugh. Come upstairs please.” It was a male voice that answered. An all-too familiar male voice. “Hugh” worked hard to hide a smirk, though inside he was nearly giddy.

When he got upstairs, Sherlock was waiting for him. The same as always. The cat braced himself, not meeting the mouse’s eyes, but trying to look natural.   
“I just need you to install the equipment on this front door here,” Sherlock ordered, hardly looking up. Oh no, now this was almost getting too easy. Had Sherlock become that thick as well? Had the mouse slowed down? Grown easier to chase?

No, he couldn’t think like that. The plan would go on.

And so “Hugh” went about installing a fancy new lock system on Molly Hooper’s door, complete with keypad and metal bar across the top of the door. He set every code, learned every loophole. And when he was finished he left, only allowing the smirk to slide back onto his face when he was walking away down the hall, his back to the world’s only Consulting Detective.


End file.
